


Plaisir

by TeaCub90



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sherlock's Birthday, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: Plaisir: French, meaning pleasure, or enjoyment.Sherlock and John dance.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	Plaisir

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Belated Birthday, Sherlock Holmes - and Happy Belated New Year, Sherlock fandom. Wishing everyone good things this year.

* * *

They dance.

In the quiet cove that is 221C – long since given up on as a habitable living-space for anything or anyone and now, more of an extension of their own little world of 221b – in a recently-cleared space in the middle of a floor where a pair of trainers once sat, apparently innocuous, they dance. John’s hands are on Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s are somewhere around his middle, hovering loosely, a little shy, as they rock and sway on the spot, nowhere in particular to go. The only sound is the classical waltz tune playing on a vinyl player, borrowed from Mike Stamford; John couldn’t remember the title, for love nor money, but it’s light and lilting and uses a lot of violins and Sherlock perked up upon hearing it, so there’s that and it fills the space, joyfully so. 

It’s not the most… _romantic_ of spots, John realises that much, but he’d done his best with what he had; dragged down a few of the lamps from upstairs, borrowed the one from the hallway and another from Mrs Hudson – and it was admittedly hilarious, seeing Sherlock glance up and around and wonder aloud why 221b had just grown a lot darker, or whether it was just him; was he going blind, John, should he book himself an eye-test? – along with an extension plug, piled up the boxes of old books and clothes into the far corners, carefully set up the vinyl player – feeling like the simplest of peasants as he tried to figure out just how to use it – and, well. Dance-hall it most certainly _isn’t,_ but it’s lit cosily, at least. And with Rosie asleep upstairs, being watched over by ever-obliging Mrs Hudson, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

And seeing Sherlock’s surprise – his utter shock, quickly followed by a burst of pleasured realisation, after John took him by the hand and led him down here, strangely sheepish, to the scene – well. _Here,_ at least, is a present that Sherlock managed not to deduce in seconds; didn’t shake the wrapping paper and dismiss it with a smirk and a comment on how the colour wouldn’t suit him or the sizes failed to match.

Plus, it makes Sherlock happy, so.

‘I can’t quite remember the waltz,’ he’d confessed, taking Sherlock’s hand and trying to line up his feet, so busy staring down – tongue sticking out with concentration, reviewing the steps in his head from once upon an afternoon or two, a long time ago – that he had missed, for a moment, the gentleness of Sherlock’s eyes. Had only looked up when Sherlock carefully released John’s hand, in favour of simply drawing him close instead, the pair of them chest-to-chest in a comfortable, upright embrace which made something in John’s chest that felt rather suspiciously like his heart flutter, a lovesick butterfly.

‘This is fine, John,’ he’d murmured, and his voice had been as sweet as leftover candle smoke, just before the cutting of the cake. ‘This will do nicely.’

He’d pressed their foreheads together briefly – perhaps intended as an irony, or simple assurance -before they held on together, and just rocked. Just swayed, just stayed, just _here._ It’s the most comfortable dance John has ever experienced; the most carefully careless, the most easily engineered. He feels less like a puppet on a string – and more himself – than he has done in a long time.

He runs a hand up Sherlock’s arm to cup the back of his shoulder, rubs the spot with his thumb. Feels the other man shiver a little, still adapting to such close contact and rubs the spot again, soothing. _It’s alright. I’ve got you. I’m here._ Nuzzling into his shoulder happily, he settles there, marvelling at the fact that they seem to _fit_ , despite so many differences; differences in height, in opinion, in size…and yet they come together.

They _always_ come back together.

There’s a click behind them and the record switches itself off. John smirks a little into Sherlock’s shoulder, not really feeling any sort of heaviness of the silence that follows, the simple scratch of the record playing nothing to its audience. Not when Sherlock is in his arms, his cheek brushing his hair, his eyes fallen shut softly, his breathing a gentle thing. Not when this is the most relaxed that he’s felt – that either of them has felt, really – for the first time in days.

When Sherlock Holmes dances, John thinks, it’s along streets, over rooftops, down dark alleys, John tearing after him, bringing up the rear, trying to stop either of them getting killed. It’s never _this_ – sweet and slow and quiet, never satisfying that small part of Sherlock that longs to dance, that makes his knee jiggle and his hands tremble and his brain atrophy. It’s never swaying, or rocking, or simply being cheek to cheek with a partner – being close with someone you love.

‘Watch out,’ Sherlock whispers in his ear, almost out of nowhere and John immediately starts, the feeling like a gunshot in the quiet and he whips backwards, expecting to be told to duck or get down or _Vatican Cameos_ – only to blink as Sherlock steps away, and performs the most perfect twirl – spin? _pirouette?_ Something… _vaguely_ ballet-like – before him, something utterly splendid and jaw-dropping that you expect only to see in the films, clearly relishing the opportunity to show off.

Oh, _sod_ it – John absolutely claps. Lifts his jaw off the floor; feels utterly inadequate as a dancer in comparison; and claps. Perhaps it feels reminiscent of their early days, back when he was constantly bowled over, almost overwhelmed, by just about everything Sherlock did – and continues to do – but what the hell.

‘Very nice,’ he compliments as Sherlock beams and bows. _Definitely_ ballet. ‘Marvellous.’

Sherlock chuffs, looking caught somewhere on that strange, Holmesian bridge between _yes, I know and your applause is deserved and appreciated_ and suddenly, unaccountably bashful, a pink shade rising in his cheeks. Clearly deciding not to comment, he instead takes the hand that John offers him, letting himself be pulled back into his arms and kissed on the cheek as they hold one other – just _hold_ one other, John running a hand up and down his back in a rhythm, enjoying the fine fabric beneath his palms.

‘Fantastic,’ he whispers, right into his ear. ‘Brilliant.’ He presses his mouth to his collar, his shoulder. ‘Absolutely lovely.’

Sherlock gives a purring kind of chuckle at the compliments, sounding utterly contented, sounding so _happy_ , in the exact manner a good man deserves to feel on his birthday.

‘Thankyou for the dance, John,’ he whispers, a tender kind of huff, right into his ear and John manages a half-hearted shrug, as though this is just par of the course for them; the sort of thing they do all the time.

(It’s not, but perhaps it could be. Perhaps it _ought_ to be. Sherlock Holmes deserves good things, after all).

‘Happy Birthday, Sherlock,’ he murmurs back promptly and kisses him again.

*

The birthday cake is a little _less_ impressive.

‘Yeah, ah…’ John shuffles guiltily as he reveals it to Sherlock. ‘Look, um, I really wanted to get you one of those really nice cakes from that…that cake-place we went to but – the manager’s ill and anyway – I saw a couple of these still in Tesco, so…’

‘You got me a Yule Log,’ Sherlock finishes for him, sounding more awestruck than he has any right to be, staring at the aforementioned Log, sitting on the table with one single, solitary, try-hard candle sticking up. ‘One of the frozen ones with the mousse on the inside.’

‘Y- _es,’_ John mutters awkwardly, trying to find some apology that will prove adequate. ‘And you devoured about thirty of these over the Christmas period, so I… _assumed_ you liked them?’

He trails off tentatively – promptly gets a cradled face and a kiss on the forehead for his troubles; finds his own face wrinkling into a grin despite himself.

‘I’ll get you something better when I get paid next,’ he mutters somewhere beneath Sherlock’s ministrations, but Sherlock’s lips are turned beautifully upright against his skin, so he gives it up as a satisfactory sort of job. ‘Okay, then. We might not be able to actually _light_ the candle because, you know, it might melt, but I can put the Bunsen-burner on low, if you like…’

‘Do shut up, John,’ Sherlock instructs, not without fondness, wrapping himself around him like a loose ribbon, all the while eyeing the Log with that certain kind of undisguised eagerness that goes a long way to dissolving guilt for taking advantage of certain cheapskate post-Christmas offers. ‘And fetch me a spoon, if you would.’

*


End file.
